“Coded Language”

I watched SlamNation tonight, a 1998 documentary about the National Poetry Slam. The Poetry Slam is basically a competition where teams of poets perform their work and are judged by the audience through several tournament-style rounds until a winner takes all.

I love spoken word so I enjoyed it a lot. It gives an interesting glimpse into the world of Slam Poetry and there are loads of great performances. There was one thing I didn’t dig much though and that’s the competition aspect of it. I get what they’re doing with it, I appreciate the opportunity it can afford up-and-coming artists to get their voices out into the public, and the possibilities for bringing contemporary poetry to people who may not otherwise be exposed to it — but somehow, something about the Slam being a competition cheapens the experience a bit for me. Plus, it was a little heartbreaking for me to watch all the backstage politics and the clashing personalities play out. That said, it is honest. It shows you what the competition really entails. But I guess I just take issue with poetry being a competition at all.

This is why I’m down with the HBO show Def Poetry. You get all the power of the poetry and the performances, even many of the same artists, but without the brutality of competition. Also, I have a super hot lusty crush on Mos Def. And yes, this is yet another instance of why I’m a stereotypical white person. (that was a pre-emptive strike).

One of the dudes in SlamNation — one of the winning dudes in fact — appears several times on Def Poetry. His name is Taylor Mali and he’s a teacher so a lot of his stuff is about his experiences in the classroom. I particularly enjoyed his poem “Totally Like Whatever.” At first I was a bit put off by his mocking tone. But I quickly realized that my reaction was fueled by my own embarassment at how I speak like that most of the time.

Saul Williams is another Slam Poetry star and I really respect his work. A comparison of the two poets reminded me of a criticism I took a few years back on one of my own poems. I was told that the poetic voice was too much like my own. I took that into serious consideration for awhile — but over time came to believe that my poetry should come out sounding like me. The poetry that speaks most to me is always the clearest, the most honest, and the closest to everyday experience and language. Taylor Mali and Saul Williams speak in their own unique voices, and if you watch the documentary you can see what a personal place these voices come from.

(If you can put up with the minor skipping on that video, it’s well worth it).

The Lost Poet

Why do I only feel compelled to write poetry lately when I’m sad? I don’t even like sad poetry to begin with. Boo.

If Only I’d Gotten There First!

Do you ever read something and think to yourself, “that was the book I should have written”? Or heard a song and thought something similar? I’m not just referring to things you really like. I mean creative output that is so close to home that, had you taken the time to make it yourself, it would have come out almost exactly the same.

Here is a brief list of things I should have made but I’m too lazy so someone beat me there (not to suggest I’m actually quite that multi-talented…).

The book I should have written: Lipstick Traces: A Secret History of the 20th Century by Greil Marcus.

The poem I should have written: “The Legs” by Robert Graves. (*see full text below)

The song I should have written: “One Two Three Four” by Feist.

The movie I should have made: Nowhere, dir. Gregg Araki.

The music video I should have made: “Here It Goes Again” by Ok Go.

Wow — that makes me sound really pretentious, doesn’t it? I don’t actually believe I would have done as good of a job with any of those ideas, but who knows cause I never tried!

—

“The Legs”

There was this road,
And it led up-hill,
And it led down-hill,
And round and in and out.

And the traffic was legs,
Legs from the knees down,
Coming and going,
Never pausing.

And the gutters gurgled
With the rain’s overflow,
And the sticks on the pavement
Blindly tapped and tapped.

What drew the legs along
Was the never-stopping
And the senseless, frightening
Fate of being legs.

Legs for the road,
The road for legs,
Resolutely nowhere
In both directions.

My legs at least
Were not in that rout:
On grass by the roadside
Entire I stood,

Watching the unstoppable
Legs go by
With never a stumble
Between step and step.

Though my smile was broad
The legs could not see,
Though my laugh was loud
The legs could not hear.

My head dizzied, then:
I wondered suddenly,
Might I too be a walker
From the knees down?

Gently I touched my shins.
The doubt unchained them:
They had run in twenty puddles
Before I regained them.

Mon coeur pareil à une flamme renversée

I came across a collection of poetry yesterday by a beloved poet of mine, Guillaume Apollinaire. I first stumbled upon his work in a Master’s course I took a couple of years ago about avant-garde art and literature — a class which, incidentally, changed my life in a lot of ways. Apollinaire is credited with having started the Cubist movement in art and literature. He was the man to introduce Picasso to Braques, and encouraged them to realize their full potential as artists. Much of his poetry is visual and that is part of what draws me to him.

The collection I found is in English so it doesn’t quite have the same ring for me, but it’s nice to have nonetheless. The thing that really bothers me though is that one my ever favourite pieces, “Mirror,” is very poorly translated: “In this mirror I am enclosed alive and real as you imagine angels and not as reflections are.” It’s quite a literal translation and, to me, seems to have lost the poetic finery of “Dans ce miroir je suis enclos vivant et vrai comme on imagine les anges et non comme sont les reflets.”

I was pleased this summer in Paris to discover that “Heart” is on Apollinaire’s gravestone.

“My heart the same as a flame upside down”… again, just doesn’t strike me as much as “Mon coeur pareil à une flamme renversée.” Maybe French is just better.

Why I Laughed When Someone Gave Me A "Reverse Nod" Yesterday

One guy stood out from the crowd
Impossible to miss
He had a newspaper under his arm
And hair like Patrick Duffy
And I thought he must be a Leo
On the prowl
Full of pride
And with a silly grin on his face
As if he were laughing at a joke that only he had heard

As he approached me
He tried to steal my gaze
And gave me the infamous reverse nod
As if I had never seen it before

And I looked into his eyes
And I looked at his soul

And do you know what I saw?
Beautiful people, come and gone
Missed opportunities
Lessons unlearned
So busy with his own thoughts
So convinced of his own importance
That he had failed to notice
The world
Moving on without him

And he looked back into my eyes
And he looked at his reflection

And do you know what he said?
He said, “Girl, it’s great to be me”

And I said, “Boy, you have no clue”

Boatmisser

Unattainable

As I was reading Lacan earlier today (who, incidentally, I am completely in love with), I came across a fragment of a poem that really struck me. It’s quoted in Lacan’s lecture on courtly love and it’s written by the Surrealist poet Paul Eluard:

Against this dilapidated sky, these panes of fresh water,
Which face will appear and, like a sonorous shell,
Announce that the night of love has turned to day,
Open mouth joined to a mouth that is closed?

Of course, that ties in beautifully with the whole ritual of courtly love, which is all about appealing to the unattainable. But more than that, the poem left a very strong impression on me. It is such a sad image. And it really speaks to that feeling I’m sure we have all had of heartsick longing.

April Showers Bring May Flowers

May is all about fresh beginnings, right? It’s the time when we clean out our homes, get rid of the dust and debris, open the windows and let the sunshine in. May 1 is also May Day, or International Labour Day — the day many countries celebrate the achievement of various Labour movements; or at the very least the workers take the day off. It is also an ancient Celtic holiday called Bealtaine, the first day of Summer. And in the US, it is Loyalty Day: “a special day for the reaffirmation of loyalty to the United States and for the recognition of the heritage of American freedom” (Wikipedia). It was originally meant to be a counter-observance to the Labour Holiday, cause we all know the Americans were never big fans of the Communists.

As the sunshine fights to break through the clouds on this West Coast May 1st, after several long months of rain, I can’t help but think of the proverb “April showers bring May flowers.” Apparently it is originally attributed to Thomas Tusser, from his 1557 A Hundreth Good Pointes of Husbandrie — “Sweet April showers do spring May flowers.” He is also the one who brought us “A fool and his money are soon parted.” But the sense of the proverb was with us long before the 16th century. It also appears (though not with a direct reference to the month of May) in the first work of English literature, Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales:

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour.

My favourite variation of that one is the opening of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land:

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with Spring rain.

The trees in Victoria are already filling out with leaves, and the flowers have been here for quite awhile. All I hope for now is that this May brings us some sunshine. I am solar-powered and Winter and Spring have taken their toll on me.

"What Will You Be?"

Posted below is my favourite poem from when I was a kid. It is from Dennis Lee’s book Garbage Delight. As I read it now, I almost feel like we could appropriate it as a manifesto for our generation. There’s so much pressure to always be something more — but what’s wrong with just being who we are and doing whatever is in front of us?

They never stop asking me,
“What will you be? –
A doctor, a dancer,
A diver at sea?”

They never stop bugging me:
“What will you be?”
As if they expect me to
Stop being me.

When I grow up I’m going to be a Sneeze,
And sprinkle Germs on all my Enemies.

When I grow up I’m going to be a Toad,
And dump on Silly Questions in the road.

When I grow up, I’m going to be a Child.
I’ll play the whole darn day and drive them Wild.

I suppose in many ways I am now “grown up” and even coming closer to having a career; but what I really feel like is a kid with a few wrinkles around the eyes and one persistent grey hair.